Order of the Black Sun Box Set 9

by Preston William Child

  Galen didn't mind being associated with the Eclipsed, at least for now. They commanded a proper amount of fear and loathing. If he ever wanted to advance later on, he wasn't so close to them that he couldn't sever ties with their sect.

  Who knew what would happen to the Eclipsed, now that their infamous leader was dead?

  Julian Corvus was one of the most genuinely terrifying people Galen had ever met. It wasn't surprising that the Order of the Black Sun was so afraid of him and his followers. Galen was glad he was gone. Julian was great at his job of hunting down relics, but he was also cutthroat, sadistic, and capable of absolutely any act of violence. A monster like him shouldn't have ever existed. The world was far better off without him.

  Seeing Julian be impaled by an ancient spear and tumble into a chasm was one of the most comforting things Galen ever saw. The man had threatened him numerous times before his death. It was nice to know that those threats wouldn't be turned into action.

  Sasha didn't admit it aloud, but she seemed just as relieved that her boss was gone.

  “We have lost a number of items to a bored billionaire with nothing better to do than get in our way. This last blunder, losing the Spear of Destiny, was just the most recent intrusion David Purdue has made into our private affairs. Although thankfully ... he didn't acquire the spear either. Isn't that right, Sasha?”

  “It is,” Sasha said. “The Spear of Destiny is at the bottom of a pit in that cave near Norwich. I don't see how they could have climbed down to get it out themselves yet.”

  Galen snickered under his breath. He knew firsthand that the spear was indeed at the bottom of a hole ... along with Julian's body. Skewered through his corpse, in fact. One of the world's most renowned and holy of weapons, buried in the rotting carcass of a murderous psychopath.

  Although, Galen did feel a little responsible for the Black Sun's loss of the spear. He had been the one to bring David Purdue into the search for the Spear of Destiny. If he hadn't called his old friend up for assistance, he never would have even known about it.

  Then again, the Eclipsed had claimed that they manipulated Galen into even starting the expedition, so maybe the Black Sun only had themselves to blame.

  “David Purdue needs to be dealt with. For good, this time. He's become more of a nuisance to us than even most governments. One man. Just one man.”

  Galen didn't really like the embellishment of Purdue. He wasn't just one normal man. He was an absurdly wealthy man. And it had never been just him. They were leaving out his friends and frequent collaborators, Sam Cleave and Dr. Nina Gould. They shouldn't be omitted. Dr. Gould herself was responsible for stabbing Julian with the spear and pushing him into the abyss with it. Purdue wasn't the one-man army that the Black Sun was making him out to be.

  “We've tried recruiting him. We've tried assassination. Yet he persists.”

  “Our focus right now should be rectifying the loss of the Spear of Destiny. It remains buried, as Sasha reported, and she will be the one to get it back. Sasha, you will return to the location with a properly equipped team. You will retrieve the weapon and bring it to us, as you were originally assigned to do.”

  “That won't be necessary.”

  The voice came from the doorway and immediately brought everyone to complete silence. A man entered the room, carrying something thin, long, and wrapped tightly in fabric. He was dressed in a black suit and had matching raven hair. When the man looked around, scanning the faces of the Black Sun, Galen recognized the cold gray eyes that looked at him.

  It was him.

  Somehow. Alive and well.

  The boogeyman of the Black Sun. The leader of the Eclipsed.

  The late Julian Corvus.

  That wasn't possible. He'd seen him die. Even if he had survived his wound, he would have died from the fall. Galen doubted his own vision for a minute but it wasn't his imagination.

  Sasha looked just as shocked beside him. Her leg was trembling furiously and her mouth hung open.

  Julian placed what he was holding on the table at the center of the room and then raised his arms at his sides expectantly. “What are you all gaping at? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

  “Julian...” Sasha was barely even able to say the name.

  Julian glanced at her—only briefly—and his lips rose into a smirk.

  Sasha shuddered at the sight of his icy gaze. “We heard you were dead.”

  “Maybe I was,” Julian said with a little laugh. “Or maybe my fall wasn't as steep of a drop as people thought. Or maybe...” He slowly pried the fabric off of what was beneath, unraveling it and revealing a long spear. “Or maybe I was stabbed by a blade that had once pierced Christ himself. Maybe I was revived shortly after my death. I climbed out of that cavern feeling better than ever. Good as new.”

  Galen recognized that old weapon immediately. It had been the object of his desires not too long ago. It was the very item that had brought him into contact with the Order of the Black Sun to begin with. It was the artifact that they had shared a mutual interest in, and even fought over it. Everyone had thought it was lost forever. Yet, here it was, in the hands of someone who was also thought to be lost forever.

  It was unreal—it felt like a nightmare.

  Sasha spoke up, her voice shaking slightly. “You're saying that the Spear of Destiny brought you back to life?”

  “I'm saying miracles are real. Clearly. And it's a miracle for this order that I'm alive. If this conversation was anything to go by, you all would have failed spectacularly as usual. Given so much power, and having no idea how to use it. But here I am, and I bring you the most powerful relic we've ever pursued. I defeated the apparently unstoppable David Purdue.”

  “He still lives,” someone blurted out defiantly.

  Julian gave a dramatic sigh and then straightened his posture. “Not for long, and no thanks to any of you. All sitting comfortably in the dark, sending us out to fetch things for you that you're too scared to go after yourself. I have proven myself time and time again. I get my hands dirty, yes, but a leader shouldn't be afraid to lead the charge firsthand.”

  One of the inner circle tried to interrupt him. “Corvus,” they said but were immediately overcome by Julian's own verbal assault.

  “I have shown what this order could be but you all ... the inner circle ... the leaders ... you continue to hold us all back.”

  Most in the room were completely enamored. He had soothed them all into a trance. Any who spoke out were quickly silenced. Julian commanded the room with the same terrifying power Sasha and Galen already knew he possessed. A natural ability to take complete control from anyone else. To bend situations to fit his will.

  Julian's jaw tightened. “I died for this.”

  No one could argue that. Galen had seen it. He watched Julian die. Whatever power had brought him back ... it hadn't diminished any of Julian's own. He was the very same blight on the world that Galen remembered. That sense of menace was no less potent.

  “Death itself couldn't stop me. What have you done lately but talk? Talk, talk, talk. I'm tired of listening to the talk. Just like you all should be. The same cycles repeating endlessly until we've all lost and are rotting in the ground. It's time for the Order of the Black Sun to change.”

  Members of the society wanted to voice their opinions. They wanted to shout their approval or make a counterargument. They wanted to rebuke him and remind him that he was far from the top of their hierarchy.

  But no one spoke. No one dared to.

  They were all completely silent—hanging onto every word he said.

  Julian stood tall at the center of the room, and there was something new behind his gray eyes.

  “And, my friends, I promise you that I am exactly what the Black Sun needs. The spark to reignite its fire. I am the change.”

  2

  THE MAGIC OF A GOOD BOOK

  Jean-Luc Gerard knew magic wasn't magical. At least, he didn't look at magic in the more mundane way the
rest of the world seemed to think of it. Wizards shouting out incantations and throwing lightning bolts from their fingers. Witches waving wands to turn people into all manner of creatures.

  It was all too simple and too clean.

  Real magic was messy. It was old and complicated.

  It was more about power given from ancient secrets long buried or forgotten in the earth than it was about fairy dust, colorful runes, or magic spells.

  Which made it ironic that Jean ran a store almost entirely dedicated to spell books. His occult book shop tucked in a cozy corner of the French Quarter of New Orleans was a popular space for anyone with any real interest in the supernatural. It wasn't any of the cheap cash grab knock-offs they had in some parts of the city. His was the real deal.

  Jean hadn't come all the way from Haiti to sell out and own something fake. All of the items for sale in his store had been at least partially validated as something legitimate. The spell books he had weren't the kind found in fables or films. They didn't contain phrases that would let you create fireballs in your palms.

  No, the books he had weren't tacky spell books. They were grimoires of writers long dead. They were more like cookbooks filled with recipes of things not usually seen in everyday life. Things that people had labeled as magic but were really just things that had been forgotten by society.

  Jean had studied the occult and the supernatural all of his life. From the stories his grandfather taught him back home to coming to get a better education in New Orleans. He may not have been a believer in the more fantastical things authors seemed to love calling magic, but he did believe that there were secrets and things in the world that science could not explain—and had no right to explain. Not everything needed to be explained.

  New Orleans was the perfect home for him and his store. They were practically surrounded by magic. The city had a rich history of witches, magic, and the paranormal. Although, many of the attractions the brochures talked about weren't worth seeing. So many of the haunted houses, the fortune-tellers, the so-called practicing witches, were all just jokes. Something for the tourists to pay for and gawk over. Some fake fun.

  Still, if you knew where to look, there was some authenticity hidden within all of the spectacle. And Jean's book shop was as near to authentic as could be found if someone had an interest in the occult.

  His grimoires and spell books all had at least some basis in truth. Anytime he found or purchased a new book to sell, he always made sure there was at least something of real value before putting it on his shelves. They had to pass his rigorous standards if he was going to maintain his reputation as a source of real magical knowledge. From personal journals of actual practicing witches to firsthand accounts of bearing witness to supernatural events. Jean-Luc Gerard was proud of the business he ran.

  The bell over the front door rang and a man stepped inside. He glanced around as he came inside, scanning the shelves of books and running his fingers along the bindings as he approached the counter.

  Jean waited patiently as he watched his new arrival—and hopefully potential customer—approach. This man wasn't one he'd ever seen before. Like most stores, he had his regulars, but he also had a fair share of fresh faces. Customer service was important, and there was only one chance to make a good first impression.

  “Good morning to you.”

  The man gave a look back at the shop around him and let out an impressed whistle. “Nice little place. Very cozy. Once you get past the haunted books and Satanic imagery. Yeah. Real cozy.”

  The man spoke with an accent that Jean didn't hear very often. Usually only in movies or documentaries. If he had to guess, he would say it sounded Scottish.

  “Thank you,” Jean said, not sure if it was even a compliment. “What can I help you with? You looking for anything special? If you are, you're at the right place. Every book here is special in its own way.”

  “I'm sure they are,” the man said, still looking around. “What I'm looking for is very special, actually. Probably worth more than most of these. Something of an old journal. One of a kind.”

  “We do have rarities here,” Jean said.

  “I'm looking for a book of shadows that once belonged to a woman named Mona Greer.”

  Jean flinched and he hoped it wasn't too visible. “Hm. Never heard of her.”

  He was lying, of course.

  Most anyone who shared in his more macabre interests had heard of Mona Greer. She had supposedly been a wicca—though many painted her more as a monstrous witch—and her exploits into darker magics had become the stuff of legends among the occult community. The basis for horror stories and severe cautionary tales to anyone who even considered partaking in less accepted magic.

  Like all stories, there were all kinds of variations on the story. Mona Greer lay with Satan himself under a dying tree on Hollow's Eve. Mona Greer kidnapped village children and cooked them in a cauldron out of spite for their more beautiful mothers. Mona Greer once turned a man's tongue to ash after he ate some of the bread she had baked.

  Even with all of those stories, some detractors said she was a simple apothecary and the world didn't understand the remedies she offered. They said she was a woman who loved nature and all it provided, only painted as a villain when her herbs proved more successful than treatments most doctors provided.

  No one really knew for sure but her personal journal, her book of shadows, was said to be so vile that it should never even be opened and read by mortal eyes. That its contents shouldn't be released into the world.

  “You haven't heard of her?” The customer raised a brow. “That's odd because I've been through a dozen similar shops here in in the Quarter and more than a couple of them suggested that you might be the perfect man to talk to about her and her book.”

  “Sorry,” Jean shrugged, trying to look convincingly ignorant. “I'm afraid they are mistaken. If there's anything else I can help you with, I'd be happy to—”

  The visitor turned away and looked at some of the books on the closest shelf. He let out a long, dramatic sigh. “That's a shame. I really had my heart set on that one. Books of shadows aren't easy to come by.”

  “No, they're not,” Jean said and felt a bit relieved. “Many covens only had one that was kept by their head witch. And books of shadows were usually burned when their owner died.”

  “To carry any of that knowledge to the grave, aye.” The man was walking along the shelf, glancing at the bindings. “But this one wasn't destroyed like it should have been. It survived its owner. And with what was inside, it would be quite the valuable find.”

  Jean nodded, trying to look just as disappointed. “Then it is truly a shame that I have never heard of it.”

  The customer suddenly reached inside his coat, turning back to the counter, and Jean instinctively raised his hands in surrender.

  “There is really no need for that, my friend.”

  “Relax,” the man said and slowly pulled his hand out of his jacket. He was holding a check book. With his other hand, he pulled out a pen from his back pocket. “I prefer using far more powerful tools than bullets. So, put your hands down, because you've got nothing to fear from me. I've always found words and money are far more effective than violence. So, how much?”

  Jean lowered his hands, his mind racing. “What?”

  “How much to tell me the truth? I'd say a penny for your thoughts and all that, but I'm offering you far more than a penny. I'm willing to spend what most might call and absurd amount of money for any information you can provide.”

  Jean stared at the open checkbook and considered his options. First off, he was very happy it wasn't a gun, and he really could use some money right now.

  “People write bad checks all the time. You are good for it, are you?”

  A broad smile formed on the visitor's face. “Oh, I am. Perhaps you've heard of me. My name is David Purdue.”

  “Can't say I've heard of you, no.”

  “You haven't heard of many peop
le then. First Mona Greer, only one of the most famous witches in history. Now me. Only one of the wealthiest men in Europe. Maybe the world, if I'm being honest.”

  “Money does not have the sway over me that it has over some. I grew up with nothing and now, because of my own hard work, I have this.” Jean held out his arms and indicated the store around them. “Look around and you can see that. I did not open this shop to be a rich man, you know.”

  “Right,” Purdue said. “You opened it because you have a passion for all of this, don't you? And a man with that much interest in the occult ... a man who every other shop in New Orleans raved about ... would have heard of Mona Greer and understood the value of her book.”

  Jean let out a little laugh, knowing that this apparently rich celebrity had just made short work of his ignorance defense.

  “Alright,” Jean said. “You are not a dumb man.”

  “No, I'm not. So again, how much to tell me what I want to know?”

  Jean scratched his chin and offered the first number that came to his mind. “Ten million dollars.”

  Much to his surprise, David Purdue actually started making out the check. Jean leaned forward to get a better look at the check and watched Purdue fill in the date, then the amount. The tip of his pen stopped at the payee line.

  “People around here were calling you Jean. What's your full name, Jean? Or should I just make it out to the store itself?”

  Jean couldn't believe what he was seeing. It had to be too good to be true. But he would humor the man, just in case really was as wealthy as he claimed.

  “Jean-Luc Gerard is my name.”

  Purdue transcribed each letter of Jean's name onto the payee line. In a swift movement—one that he probably performed countless times—he signed his own name at the bottom of the check and tore the piece of paper from his checkbook. Purdue held the check out in front of Jean, who took it and just stared at it for a long moment.